Red and blue lights twinkled over her shoulder as she rolled down the window. Her heart thumped and pulsated in her ears where the now silent bass once had. Putting on her most humble smile, she turned to face the uniformed man walking toward her.
“What are you doing out at this hour, Ms. Hilton?”
Pete’s heart nearly gave out when the door flew open. Too many sleepless nights hiding in fear had frayed his nerves. Adrenaline surged through his veins…
Only it wasn’t the police. It was a familiar woman’s face. As she told them what had happened that morning, Pete’s eyes widened. “What do you mean it’s empty?”
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Joseph woke late from his first night’s sleep since Friday’s execution. The city was buzzing with gossip. He was still groggy, but finally at peace. He barely noticed the attendant hurrying into the room.
With each word whispered into his ear, the corners of his mouth fell in disbelief. “What do you mean it’s empty?”
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Three men stood across from the President, two wearing gray suits and the third a heavily decorated uniform. Eyes shut, the President plotted the next moves in the real-life chess game before him.
Opening his eyes, he nodded to the General and then picked up the red receiver on his desk. “Get me Khrushchev.”
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Four girls sat on the merry-go-round playing a clapping game, while a group of boys played football in the field nearby. They were unaware that one had blond curls, another a sandy brown bob, and the last two neatly braided corn rows.
A man awoke from his nap. Across the street children laughed and played.
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With a rough, weather-worn hand he reached across the table. He took the bread, and the murmur of conversation quickly died. He looked at the faces of his dear friends. Some stared back; some looked away; but all seemed to be aware of the gravity of the moment.
Silently, he handed out the bread.
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Down it floated, spinning and twirling in the breezes that whipped between the skyscrapers. The scrap of paper – and a million more – were tossed in jubilant exaltation. The war was over, and the soldiers were coming home. As the parade wound thru town, a nation rejoiced expressing its thanks with a million scraps of paper.
Up in his room in the attic, he stared at the blank page before him. No words came to him. For three hours, the silence was broken only by the tinkling of the whiskey bottles he drank from. Then at the stroke of midnight, he began to write drunkenly.
His name was Edgar Allan Poe.
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